Page 182 of Chasing Headlines

I opened my mouth to reply. But before I could even say anything, she cut in.

“Poppycock.”

“What?”

“Horse manure. Sheep shit. You need more? I’ve got dozens.”

I blinked. “I don’t understand why?—”

“As you said before, he’s a grown man. Capable of taking care of himself. If he’sletting youhelp him with something . . . It’s because he either wants your help, or your company.”

“But I?—”

“Let me ask you this. If you take away the ballplayer, what do you see?”

“What? What do you mean? I-I he's . . . Attractive.” With the most beautiful eyes. “And, um, smart, I guess.”

“Sorry, nope, you don't deserve him. Call me that rideshare.”

My stomach flipped over. “What? What the hell are you?—”

“You shouldn't swear at an old lady.” She put her forearm up to her head. “Oh, the abuse I suffer.”

“You curse all the time. Oh my God, I don't deserve him? With his-his-his temper and his irritating barbs and that smirking know-it-all face that he makes. Especially! Especially when . . .”

A chill swept through me. I shivered, but warmth swelled in my abdomen, spilling into my chest. Coop, Breslin, the man I met when we were away from the field. The one I spent time with at the senior center. He was . . . he treated me differently than Coop, the ballplayer.

The way he'd hold my gaze a bit too long, it'd made my insides burn.

The way those midnight eyes glittered when he suggested I show up on “day four”.

The way he'd frown whenever I told him . . . I was fine.

“He looks at me. And I hate it. Not him. Just how he gets me so riled up I can't even think straight. Or about?—”

The way he smelled like soap and sandalwood. The way his voice rumbled when he thanked me. The way his lips felt warm and soft and melty against mine . . .

“. . . anything but him. Oh, God.”

“Fine, you win. I'll go with you to see your boyfriend at the hospital.”

I stared at that diabolical old woman, and I was fairly certain she was her own force of nature, best contained in that senior center. But what could I say? I wanted to see him. To make sure he was all right. I had a hundred questions to ask him.

And he wouldn't get away with 'no comment' as his answer. Not this time.

Chapter Fifty-Two

Olivia POV

The first question was going to be: what the hell was in his game bag that made it weigh a metric ton? The next question was going to Mr. Megawatt self-proclaimed MVP and why he couldn’t bring the damned thing to his friend.

Dotty disappeared. Somewhere. I let her out at the hospital front door and had to find parking. Then dragged Coop’s bag o'bricks and anvils across a mile-long parking lot. The front desk wouldn’t share his room information, so I ended up having to text Eberhardt. And wait.

Finally, he sent back the room number, and then I was dragging the luggage of doom down one impossibly long hallway to intersect with another stupidly long corridor. But this one had linoleum floors . . . Which meant I could drag the thing instead of pretending to be the female version of Atlas with an awkward bulky bag on my shoulders.

I made it almost all the way to his room and ran out of steam. I didn’t want to look a total mess, so I checked my makeup in one of the semi-reflective windows in the hallway. Sat against the wall and caught my breath. I decided to shove the bag the remaining few feet—with my foot. And ended up in the midst of a small group of Coop’s, um, Breslin’s teammates.

Fendleman separated from the rest and greeted me. “The old lady’s been asking about you. Think it’s you. Right?”

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